Parents in a Cleveland suburb sent hundreds of children to school Monday and three of them didn’t come home. A 17-year-old has been arraigned for opening fire in the cafeteria at Chardon High School. It’s too early in the investigation to know why it happened.
When I hear about school violence, I have to send myself to my virtual chalkboard.
I will not be afraid to send my children to school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school. I will not be afraid to send my children to public school.
Simone’s teacher asked all of her students to make and write their own Valentine’s Day cards. The assignment encourages her students to write. It also makes for great reading for parents.
A few of the notes refer to Simone’s ankle. A few days before Valentine’s Day, she fell off a see-saw after school, and a kid fell on top of her. (Yes, there was more than one child on each end of the see-saw.) Simone seemed fine at first but then complained about her ankle. The accident led to her very first trip to the emergency room. Doctors took X-rays and declared that she would live. A nurse wrapped her ankle and gave her kiddie-sized pain killers. Simone and Nadia wore big smiles on their faces as they were rolled out of the ER in a wheelchair. A week later Simone danced around the house.
Here are a few of the sweet ones. I’ve copied the notes just as they were written.
Dear Simone,
I’m sorry that you sprang your ancle.
Dear Simone,
You are a good friend. I love you. I love you like my friend.
Dear Simone,
You are a good good frind. You are funny. Happy Valentin!
Dear Simone,
You are awesome. You are smart. You are the best. You are a rainbow.
Dear Simone,
You are the greatest girl in the world. You are so nise. I wish you were my sister. I hope that your ankel feels better.
Dear Simone,
You is a good friend
Dear Simone,
You are smrt. You are good at drawing. You are fast.
Three Two good friends of mine are expecting this summer, and a fourth third wants to get pregnant this year. It’s going to be a very good year.
I’ve been reflecting on our first year with Simone and Nadia. Mostly, I’ve been looking back and wondering whether there is anything other parents didn’t tell me that I can now tell my girlfriends. You know, the secret handshake of parenthood. Where all the baby codes are hidden. The classified information needed to navigate the first year.
A few memories bubbled up quickly.
I remember the exact moment when I realized the baby growing inside of me would have to come out.
Wondering why I was purchasing all of those baby gadgets for a child who takes up so little space.
And figuring I was not smart enough to have a child because it took me three times as long than the instructions said it would to assemble said baby gadgets.
Ah, what great memories.
Then there was the time I noticed the kid would arrive without an owner’s manual, prompting me to read every baby book within reach.
We were giddy when we brought our baby home, changing all those itty-bitty diapers — 14 times a day.
And knowing when a diaper needed to be changed because the new human in our life announced it with grimaces, contortions, and gurgles.
Those were the days.
I remember feeding the baby cereal for the first time, picking her up, extending her stomach, and then changing my shirt.
How could we forget the first time she smiled or cut a tooth?
Or those few colicky nights?
Or that first fever?
It seems like yesterday.
I’ll never forget that night she got out of her crib 15 times, and we put her back in her crib 16 times.
Or the morning we lounged in the bed knowing full well the baby was in her crib — and then heard a door creak open.
And being more excited about her first birthday than she was.
So, what would I tell my friends, these expectant mothers? What shall I say to them as they prepare for this life-changing event?
Not a darn thing. There’s no way to truly prepare. Besides, our babies figured us out long before we figured them out. All parents have to do is follow the cues. That’s what were doing — and we’re 7 years into this thing called parenthood. Other than that, you’re on your own.
Do you have any sage words for my friends?
It’s not surprising at all that interracial marriage is on the rise. It is my hope is that all this number crunching will mine meaningful statistics. I’m still waiting on a fresh figure that addresses whether interracial marriages are more prone to divorce. For now, we’re depending on previous studies.
An analysis conducted a decade ago found that 10 years after they married, interracial couples had a 41% chance of separation or divorce, compared with a 31% chance among couples who married within their race, according to a study based on the 1995 National Survey of Family Growth (NSFG).7
Beautiful Ballerina: What’s your mommy’s name?
Nadia: Mommy.
Beautiful Ballerina: But what is her name?
Nadia: We call her Mommy, but Daddy calls her Monique.
Nadia, explaining that her mother has more than one name.
I don’t take death like I used to. I take it as a mother.
When I heard about the passing of Whitney Houston, my heart ached for Cissy Houston, the mother who nurtured her, and for Bobbi Kristina, the daughter who lost her mother too soon.
It wasn’t the singing or acting that made me pay attention to Whitney Houston. Sure, it helped. Much of her music was the soundtrack to my life. It was her struggle with addiction, though, that moved me.
I watched my mother struggle with her addiction to alcohol. I watched her touch her personal abyss, and I watched her pull herself out of it. It took decades of falling and getting up and falling again, before my mother finally found the strength to walk away.
I knew it was possible for Whitney to do the same, and I quietly wished she would find her strength. I wished she would get it together, whatever that was, and move on with her life. Days before she passed, I read an article about the upcoming movie “Sparkle,” a remake of the 1976 film starring Irene Cara. In the updated version, Houston stars as the matriarch of aspiring singers who struggle with the effects of stardom.
I read the article twice and studied the accompanying photo. Good for her, I thought. Good. for. her.
The positive news was short-lived. Whitney Houston was found dead at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. It will be weeks before we learn what happened. No matter what you think about Whitney, her music, her movies, and her life, remember she was someone’s daughter and mother. In my mind, that is the real loss.
